Just After Midnight
by Sorrel
Summary: “The dreams always came at midnight.” Dean takes care of Sam the best he knows how. SamDean slash. Warning: incest.


**Just After Midnight.

* * *

**

The dreams always came at midnight.

The witching hour, it was called. Dean never had been able to figure out why that particular time was such a draw for the supernatural, but Sam was no exception and whenever the nightmares, visions, whatever-the-fuck they were, they always came at midnight.

Dean had long ago figured out that prevention was the best way to keep from getting dead, and it was easy enough to apply it to his current situation with Sam. He always locked the doors and windows, packed away all loose items except his cell phone, which was turned up loud enough that he could hear it through the drawer he kept it in. He taped the lamps down, and always, _always_ unloaded his guns.

Sam didn't know about any of this, of course. The first couple of nights, Dean had had a little trouble getting it all done in the short space of time Sam was in the shower, but he'd quickly learned how to do it fast enough. It was routine, now, as simple and necessary as cleaning his guns before a hunt.

Sam didn't realize what happened when he had his nightmares. He didn't realize that everything left loose in the room started floating, that the doors and windows started rattling in their frames and would slam open if left unlatched, that Dean's gun had almost gone off in his hands that first night. He didn't realize that he woke up, his mouth open in a soundless scream, his eyes wide open and his pupils completely blown. He didn't realize that it was Dean who soothed him back into sleep, Dean who stayed up all night and researched the things that Sam babbled to him in the wake of his visions, who explained it the next day by saying that Sam talked in his sleep.

Sam didn't realize any of this because he didn't remember. When he woke up the next morning, he remembered the vision, but never the aftermath. Dean didn't tell him, because Sam had enough problems, what with the horrifying visions and the migraines. This was Dean's burden, his way of making things easier for his brother. He promised to take care of Sam, and he would go to any lengths to keep his promise.

* * *

Dean was on the laptop when Sam woke up. He'd just pulled on a pair of jeans when he woke up, and his skin is showing goose bumps in the cool morning air. There was a cup of coffee in one hand, and two empties by his right elbow. It had been a long night.

"Mr. Farris, in Iowa," Sam said immediately, even before he opened his eyes. When he did, Dean could see that they were bloodshot from all the way across the room.

"I know," he said. "I got the address, checked up on local history. Best guess is a poltergeist."

Sam sat up, rubbed his eyes. When he looked at Dean, his gaze was almost accusing.

"How did you know, Dean?"

"I've told you this before," Dean said, shading his tone with false irritation. It's worked before to get Sam to stop asking questions. "You talk in your sleep."

"See, I believed that." He reached into the drawer next to the bed and pulled something out, a small black device that Dean realized, with a sinking heart, was his recorder. "And then I noticed that you were securing the room at night. So I started leaving this on at night, just to make sure."

"Alright, alright," Dean said. "You wake up, okay? And tell me the whole thing. You never remember in the morning."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sam asked, sounding wounded. "Why lie about it?"

"I thought it'd be easier like this," Dean said. "You've got enough on your plate, you know?"

Sam got out of bed, came over and knelt beside him. He rested his head against Dean's side, his breath warm against Dean's skin, one arm creeping around his waist, and Dean draped one arm around his shoulders and laced his fingers through his hair. His response was completely instinctive, the entirely natural result of Sam being close to him. He was always able to control it when they were on the hunt, but at moments like this, he was never able to resist the urge to get his hands on Sam.

"Still taking care of me, huh?" Sam asked. Dean tugged on one errant curl, lightly.

"Have I ever done anything else?"

"No," Sam said seriously. "No, you haven't." He tilted his head back, looked up at Dean. "But you don't have to do it alone."

Dean said nothing.

"Or at least, that's what you're always telling me."

Dean smiled ruefully. Sam had a point. It just didn't feel the same, somehow. It was his job to protect Sam, always had been. Sam had his back, yeah, but it was _different_ for Dean. He always had to be the older brother, even when Sam didn't want him to. Maybe especially when Sam didn't want him to. That's usually when Sam needed it the most.

"It's just-" he said.

"Yeah, I know," Sam said. "But we look out for each other, right? That's what it means for brothers."

Dean tightened his arm around Sam's shoulders in a gentle hug. "Okay," he said, and felt Sam's smile against his skin.

* * *

"Sam," Dean said. It was a couple minutes after midnight, and Sam was plastered against his side, shaking from the aftermath of the nightmare. At least the doors and windows weren't rattling anymore. "Sammy, come on, you wanted me to wake you up."

Sam slowly surfaced, and his eyes were so lost and confused that Dean had to grit his teeth against the urge to just soothe Sam back into sleep and do the research himself. But Sam wanted Dean to wake him up because he didn't want Dean to be looking after him all the time, and thinking about it, Dean knew that Sam had a point. 'Cause Dean was the big brother, but they were supposed to be partners. So they looked after each other.

"Hey," Dean said gently. "You awake?"

"Yeah," Sam said. His voice was hoarse and scratchy, and Dean would have gotten up to get him a glass of water, but he was pretty sure Sam's death grip wasn't going to slacken any time soon. "Black dog attack outside of Boston. Young woman traveling in a crap car with her daughter. Virginia license plate, starts with ABZ, but I didn't get the rest. It was either blue or black. Station wagon, maybe?"

"We'll look it up," Dean said, stroking his back comfortingly. "Just take a minute, okay?"

"Dean…" Sam said. Dean knew that tone. It never meant good things.

"It's not happening tonight, and if it was we couldn't get there in time anyway. So just breathe a minute, will you?"

Sam must have heard the worry in his voice, because he subsided with a minimum of muttering and pressed his face into the curve of Dean's throat. Dean's free hand came up to tangle in his hair, something he'd never get tired of doing.

They lay like that for a little while, and then Dean felt Sam stirring and knew that he couldn't put it off any longer. "Work time, huh?" he asked.

"Yep," Sam said, wriggling free when Dean reluctantly loosened his grip. "You can go back to sleep, though, if you want."

"Like hell," Dean said, groggily hauling himself upright. He sat on the edge of the bed for a second, waiting for the inevitable rush of vertigo to fade, then tilted his head back to look up at his too-tall little brother. "If you're up then I'm up, dude."

"I figured," Sam said, and bent down to give him a swift kiss before going over to the laptop with way more energy than anyone should have in the middle of the night.

Dean followed him over, sat on the edge of the bed and needlessly cleaned his guns while the two of them tossed back and forth ideas. It was just after midnight, and the Winchester brothers were up for the morning, ready to take on the world, as always.

But it was okay, 'cause neither of them was doing it alone.


End file.
